


enigma

by princessarcade



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, M/M, Riverdale-inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessarcade/pseuds/princessarcade
Summary: "It’s like this for a while. For a long while. Clark and Diana keeping watch, keeping guard of Bruce through everything normal, everything they’d do before. Playing card games by the pool, lying in the corn fields, racing through mud. Bruce gets better at it in front of everyone else, gets better at lying. Gets better at pretending. Gets better at reading and emulating moods. But with Clark and Diana? He can play the card games without smiling. Without even speaking. And that’s okay. It’s okay.Right until -"Let's not get ahead of ourselves.Welcome to Safehaven, a town that's as simple as a mosaic dating back four centuries. It's got division down to a T. Shieldside, the neighbourhood up north, is rich in liars and thieves dressed up in designer clothing. Meanwhile, Gotham down south is genuine bullshit. For years, Gotham socialites have attempted to reshape the south in the hopes that Safehaven can actually live up to its goddamn name. Crime is all too common, so it's not a shock when a body turns up in the river one day. But once word gets out of the identity of said body, Safehaven gets a lot more interesting.Yeah, basically, a Marvel/DC crossover inspired by Riverdale.





	enigma

**Author's Note:**

> this is largely based off a roleplay with a good friend. haven't written a fic in years, so give me a shout (validation) if you like this!

The funeral is tomorrow.

Everyone will wear black, even though his mother hated the colour. But it’s what’s done. At least, that’s what Wright said as he divulged the details to Alfred. The older man had frowned, the lines in his forehead giving way to a canyon of worry.

“Alfred, be reasonable. We can’t just have people wearing yellow simply because it was Martha’s favourite,” Wright said, offering the butler an attempt at a friendly laugh. Alfred had merely stared.

“Well, why not? The funeral _is_ to honour her and Master Thomas.” Alfred never raised his voice, even when livid. In fact, when livid, his voice would carry a sharp brightness to it.

“It’s not what’s done.”

“And what is done? A service so soulless it might as well persuade the attendees into death themselves?” Alfred kept his tone conversational as he poured the tea. It was likely the cheap jasmine reserved for the guests Alfred didn’t actually like. And nobody liked Wright, even before. He had plump hands too soft for a man who complained about how hard things were getting for the business and breath too reminiscent of a bar. Then there was his mustache, which was, according to Alfred, ‘a skunk’s tail pasted onto his upper lip'.

“We will still be celebrating their lives. It’s just that we need everyone in black. It’s not that huge of a deal, old man,” Wright answered, his tone clipped. He paused to take a sip of his drink.

“If you truly believe that, you did not know Martha Wayne.”

Everyone knew Martha, even if they didn’t want to. She wasn’t obnoxious, no matter what the tabloids cried. She was beautiful. Not in the way that drew eyes in, but in the way that slithered and stuck itself deep in your heart. That’s what his father would have said. And he said a lot about his mother. She had a grace to her, no matter what her mood was. And Martha Wayne had her moods. The socialite was never parted from a champagne glass too long, and her son knew her two trademark positions well. The first was the head thrown back in throaty laughter. The second was the slight lift of the chin and lips tightening.

The public believed Martha was either gentle or a wreck. It varied and often depended on the day of the week.

Thomas, however, was adored throughout the city. Everyone and their grandmother knew him as Gotham’s beloved prince. Originally a student of medicine, he was forced to take over the family business of essentially running Safehaven when his father died suddenly. But he embraced it and made it his own. That’s what everyone said.

He made Safehaven better. He made Safehaven safe. Martha made him safe. The two founded the first orphanage in Gotham, helped set up shelters, soup kitchens, and sold their souls to the dream of making the city’s most despised district something more.

It made sense, then, that Bruce was their son. A frail thing with a mop of dark hair, he was all reservation, hesitation, and total lack of innovation. He was clever, but in the way that cowered under a radar. No one really paid him mind. He was just the distant future of the enterprise, too concerned with clinging to his mother’s skirts at the occasional gala. But that was before there were no more skirts to hide behind. And now? Now that the pair Gotham loved most was gone?

Now, he was on everyone’s radar.

 

 

“The eulogy you gave was perfect,” Diana says. Bruce watches as she twists her damp hair into a tight braid. They’re sitting on Clark’s bedroom floor, having spent the evening out in the pool.

“It was,” Clark agrees, taking a seat next to him. He’s still in his swimming trunks, hair plastered on his forehead. It’s almost a silly look for him. (But there’s not a lot that would make Clark look silly.) He leans back on his palms, the freckles on his arms illuminated in the light.

“I don’t think so,” Bruce admits. He’s all dry now, having changed into one of Clark’s plain red shirts. There’s an old paint stain smeared across it; a faded blue along the threads. It was from one of their art projects. Or science experiments. Often, the two intersected. “I cried.”

“Were you not supposed to?” Diana’s nose wrinkles. “Did they tell you not to?”

“No,” he says. “But it’s like they wanted me to.”

“That’s dumb,” Clark says vehemently. “I thought it was perfect.”

“Mm, thanks. Can we play cards now?”

It’s like this for a while. For a long while.

Clark and Diana keeping watch, keeping guard of Bruce through everything normal, everything they’d do before. Playing card games by the pool, lying in the corn fields, racing through mud. Bruce gets better at it in front of everyone else, gets better at lying. Gets better at pretending. Gets better at reading and emulating moods. But with Clark and Diana? He can play the card games without smiling. Without even speaking. And that’s okay.

It’s okay.

Right until the murder of Gotham’s other prince, Lex Luthor.


End file.
